White Shores
by Sincerely Marigold
Summary: In the wake of her life's greatest tragedy, a common Londoner discovers a portal in the form of an old ring from her late fiancé. One of my first stories and rather old, but under revision and nearly complete. Very dark at the beginning, but transitions into a sweet Pippin/OC.
1. Chapter 1

Wendy watched a heavy stream of smoke levitate freely from the end of a brown incense stick. She saw it multiply and divide from both above and underneath itself, collapsing into weightless entities of swirling, perfumed white. And for a while, this was all she saw. Until it climbed the height of the tall, rectangular bathroom and slipped through the skylight, leaving nothing behind but the delicate fragrance of lavender and smoke. She slid down further into the deep, vintage tub until the tip of her nose reached the summit of her bathwater. And there, she shut her eyes, closing herself off from the hypnotic artistry of the smoke. But the moment she turned her world to blackness, memories from the last three days came flooding back in. Her eyes snapped open and she rose back to her normal sitting height.

"And to think," she muttered, reaching for the remnants of her Rum and Coke and taking a sip, "I was doing just this three nights ago."

Her eyes traveled to the floor, where atop her towel sat an unimpressive no-contract flip phone and memory set the "incoming call" light aglow.

"If only I had reached..." She turned, but her arm never emerged from the water. No, grief overtook her and she slid back into comfort. "I didn't."

She didn't. Yes, it is true; she didn't reach for the phone. They'd ignored one another before, and even this time, they'd both agreed that it would be justified to ignore one another for just one night. After all, it was the evening before their wedding day. Why, you might ask, was Wendy alone that night? Her girlfriends had planned the most spectacular of Hen Nights for her- there would be drinks and music on the deck of one of London's finest yachts. Surely this would make a poor girl feel like royalty for a short while. But all sweet things turn bitter when they're left to breathe for too long and in her secret heart of hearts, Wendy knew that her engagement to Percy had gone stale. She'd grown increasingly bitter and untouchable as the wedding approached. And, as with many cases, her dearest friends received each defensive blow full force, suffering alongside her beneath a cloud of misery.

She remained in place for what seemed like hours, shutting her eyes and reopening them once the soreness of exhaustion, sadness or the effect of the incense overcame their momentary slumber. All of the rest that she'd given herself those last three days could be counted in elongated blinks, it seemed. Shifting from the light of life and the shade of repose gave Wendy a sense of renewal- once memory clouded her mind in one world, she'd slip into the other- never to stay there for very long.

Snippets of a thousand yesterdays seemed to create themselves out of thin air, just as the cloud-like sculptures of the smoke did. She recalled their schooldays, crunching through the leaves of the amber Septembers, the untouched snows of the glistening Decembers and the gentle trods over the newborn grasses of early Mays. She recalled the promise he made in the courtyard of the alabaster university that Indian summer before the air turned cold. Every memory was derived by things that she could find with every sense that she possessed- but above all, she could feel the coldness of that silly ring, even when it was all the way across the house.

It is not that a proposal seemed silly to Wendy; though she was never quite the kind to settle down and become a home keeper. But once they moved away from the dreamlike village of Stratford-upon-Avon to the "big smoke" and the awkward proposal happened, things started to fall short for Percy and Wendy. And the ring, oh, that dreadful thing! She'd told him in the past that she wanted something plain and practical with perhaps a sweet little jewel embedded in its center. So, she hardly expected him to come parading through the door one night, piss drunk with a piece that King Arthur himself would save for a special occasion (example, protecting his finger from a blow in battle) and an elaborate story of how he'd happened upon it. Rather, in his drunken state, Percy was very proud of himself for dislodging it from underneath a manhole in Trafalgar Square. But Wendy was somewhat embittered to think that this was "it"- and her discontent only grew as the years wore on and he never bothered to find her a more suitable engagement ring.

This was not the only falling out for them, for the true slope from love to indifference was found in the move. The two of them had let go of what existed in nature and turned to the "machine", so to speak. Those long walks along the river in the sunlit countryside transitioned into longer walks through foggy waves of manmade atrocities. The real shame, however, was that it took them both so long to realize that any fragment of companionship they'd found flourished so dearly when close to nature.

In London, this companionship turned to greed and competition. It became a race to see who could work harder and longer and bring in the greatest profit. Wendy worked for the newspaper, making minor edits and formatting stories that other authors- better authors had written. Percy stood on the same primary step toward his ultimate aspiration. For the time being, he thrived in the underbelly of a greedy law firm, reviewing the work of much brighter minds than his, while on the path to work as a respected London lawyer- someday soon, perhaps.

When what was left of the incense faded away into nothingness and ash, Wendy took one final sip from her glass and rose from the tub. She shook the phone off of her towel, letting it clatter on the bathroom floor and leaving it behind after wrapping up. Upon passing the mirror, she made a little stop to make a few minor adjustments to the partially damp bun she'd fashioned her chaotic tresses into before her bath. She found her reflection to be, simply put, unimpressive and soon grew weary of looking upon it. After all, she had no evening arrangements or impending visits- except perhaps the passing friend, stopping by to offer their condolences. But in the last couple of days, even her dearest of friends had learned that this was a lost cause. For the time being, none could reach Wendy but Wendy herself.

The flat was just as dark as ever, dimly lit by weak light bulbs favored by migraine-ees throughout the UK. She and Percy both were tormented by the dreadful headaches after moving to the city and although they could never quite wager their cause, they blamed them on hard work and weariness, nonetheless.

"You know you're a true Londoner", he would say, nursing his forehead with a damp cloth, "when you've become intolerant to the natural light of day." Of the two of them, his headaches were the very worst and he grew, well, as Percy so boldly put it, intolerant of not only the light of day, but the lovely little fires that Wendy built in the living room on cold evenings. Their marvelous footed tub aside, there was nothing in the flat that Wendy loved more than that quaint little fireplace.

Their first winter there, Percy had given her a beautiful bag of teal-frosted pinecones and dried out wood-like things with a big silver bow to seal in its contents. She thought at first that it was merely an ornate bag of potpourri, so she was surprised when he grabbed a fistful out of the bag and tossed it over the crackling embers of one of her simple fires. Much to her surprise, as the flames danced before them, they turned an even more brilliant shade of teal than the pinecones themselves. It was a beautiful gift. Simple, yet magical- a dying gasp of who they once were.

Upon entering the bedroom, Wendy found that the uneasiness of seeing his pillow, his dresser and his fine leather business shoes lined obsessively along the walls, had yet to vanish since the last time she was in there. And so, she decided to spend yet, another night in the living room alongside her beloved fireplace. She hadn't lit it since the accident, however. Come to think of it, the fear of offending the ghost of Percy still controlled many of her actions. Whether or not this would grow or lessen with time was still unclear. But this night, she decided to make a change. As she stepped into her flannel and topped it off with what was once Percy's solemn black housecoat (she'd stolen it years ago and with those years, the shame had died)- she made a promise to herself, tonight, she'd light a fire.

Excitement took over her. "A nice, warm fire!" She thought to herself, bundling up and stepping into the frigid hallway.

"It doesn't hurt to be a tad selfish every now and then. In fact, we must be. So long as it's few and far betwee-" she stopped herself, and dead in her footsteps, she turned back. Her eyes scanned over the empty room and from the distance of the doorway, it seemed more appealing, somehow.

As she looked, her eyes stopped at his dresser; on his side of the bed. On top of it stood a single photo frame, a cheap one, like the ones they sell at M&S over the holiday season. And she was drawn to it. As if it were an omen, the desire for one last look demolished all of her willpower and strength.

And so, Wendy made one final, glacial cross to their bedside, stopping when she was faced by that unprofessional university portrait housed in its crude silver frame. She looked at it once and saw in that single glance, all of Percy's softly spoken beauty.

He was embracing her tightly- so tight, in fact that the sides of their faces smushed together comically. But the twinkle in his green eyes and elegance of his facial structure was more than preserved. His golden curls poured over her tragic brown frizz and although she looked, as far as Wendy was concerned, a mess, it was still her favorite picture of the two of them. Perhaps because it was the only shot they had of themselves in that special courtyard in which he made her a supposedly enduring promise of love and adventure. Secretly, to both of them, it was far more significant than the proposal. Perhaps that is why he kept the picture there for so long.

Wendy removed the picture from the frame and glanced at it one more time before folding it up and putting it in the housecoat's pocket. She threw the frame on the bed, stuck her nose in the air and turned on her heel to leave the room and build that fire she'd so promised herself.

As she made her way across the house, however, something else stopped her. It seemed as though there was something she'd forgotten. Though she didn't quite know what it was. It seemed to be calling from the room, but she scarcely wanted to reenter its gloom again- at least not until the morning, when it would be filled with the sweet light of day, pure and bright enough to soften even the ugliest gargoyle's face.

"No," Wendy thought, "I will not go back tonight, anything else of his I cannot bear to see right now. The picture will have to do."

She created herself a cozy nest on the floor out of random, mismatched pillows and throws and once she was snug, she began to tend to her fire. But comfort wouldn't last long for Wendy and second that the wood started to burn, a surge of energy overtook her.

"A drinky!" She thought, "I can get away with two in one night. And it should keep me from drinking in the morning."

She leaned over the newborn fire and started to contemplate what kind of little mixer she could create that would settle okay with the Rum and Coke. "Gin and Tonic? Blah, that wouldn't sit well at all. Hmmm… apple martini? No, Percy loves apples. Oh, fuck it. Rum and Coke." She rose to her feet. "No, no that's caffeinated. Of course, I could call in… again."

The newspaper originally gave her two weeks off, but in Wendy's eyes, that was far too generous. It was not that she needed the money, all together with the savings and incoming support from family and friends, she was covered beautifully.

Rather, she wanted something to keep her moving, so she didn't crash. But now that she had crashed, even though she'd deny that she had, Wendy didn't want to stay in motion any longer. She was now at the edge of the abyss, longing to shrink down to Alice's size and drown herself in a glass of her favorite drink.

Wendy rose. And it was only moments after she started walking out of the fire's light that she realized where her feet were taking her; and it was not toward the liquor cabinet at all. It's a strange feeling really, letting go of oneself. And Wendy knew this all too well. She wanted so badly to be at peace; but as ever, her silly heart longed to be in the eye of the storm. Deep down, she already knew the answer. She had mourned so little, cried so little and felt so little after losing him, that she wanted to feel something again. Perhaps that was the real reason why she tortured herself so.

As she re-entered the room, her body tensed and stomach turned; for she knew at last what it was she sought. A sliver of moonlight peeped through the window, illuminating the space above her dresser. Upon it was a mess of newspapers and a Doc Martens shoe box full of partially discarded, partially important sticky notes. Three nights ago, after coming home from the hospital, before grabbing the housecoat and leaving for the living room, Wendy had thrown the ring into the shoebox. And there it had remained, awaiting their next encounter.

She picked the cold thing up. It was heavy and uncomfortable in her hand. She twisted it, allowing the colossal silver band with Celtic knots strewn in here and there to reflect the moonlight. When she came to a stop in the center, she realized that the clear stone in its center could find no reflection.

She moved it around again. Nothing still. Her tired knees buckled from underneath her and without thinking, Wendy lowered herself onto the bed. Right as she touched down, an image showed in the center of the stone. She sprang to her feet, conscious that there was nothing in the room that matched that particular reflection. Her eyes narrowed and the image presented itself again. It was a fire; gentle and controlled, just as the one she had made. Upon seeing it, her heart grew greedy once more. So Wendy crossed the lonely flat to her fire.

Before leaving the room, she put the ring on her finger again. A force of habit. She wagered in the back of her fuzzy mind that it was another action done to please Percy. As she grew closer, her exhaustion built atop itself with every step. As her warm little nest came into sight, Wendy started to doubt that she'd make it there before collapsing. And she found that the same place where the fire gave her that sudden energy before, now beckoned her to the first real sleep she'd had in days. She fought the weight of her dreariness long enough to reach her spot and curl up under the afghans and fleece and things.

Her eyes shut and stayed shut longer than they ever had. Across her face, a tiny grin of satisfaction in herself and perhaps even in the world transpired. But as they say, no rest ever comes to the truly weary. Before the first faint image of what would grow into a dream could be conceived in her mind, a familiar cold and darkness crept into the room. Wendy could feel it cover her as a wicked cloud that comes to darken the sunlit shore. Her eyes blinked open and she found that the fire put itself out prematurely. She rose in frustration, pushing the blanket to the side. Within the briskness of this action, however the ring flew off of her finger and landed near the matchbox on the mantle.

With a contained grunt, she crawled over to retrieve it and to strike another match on the wood. But the closer she moved toward the fireplace, the colder the air around her grew to be.

"Well, this is most unnatural," Wendy thought. She laid her hand on the matchbox and a familiar glow was born inside the stone again. Only this time, warmth- straight, un-diluted warmth seemed to originate from the ring. She abandoned the matchbox and touched the band with her finger tips.

With one touch, the heat of a thousand lovely fireplaces and goose down blankets filled her. She could hardly remember the last time she felt so complete. Only- she could. She'd never admit it, but she could. She remembered their train ride to London, when love was sweet and the world, undiscovered. It was the first time either of them had been to the city.

As the train left the station, he grabbed hold of her hand and pressed his lips against it. His mouth remained at her hand as he spoke, "Just think, this is only the first of so many adventures."

The name built up inside of her until at last it spilled out her lips, "Percy?" And as she spoke, the warmth was gone.

Her face hardened as she flicked a lit match on the half-burned firewood; once again, regaining her previous, comfortable stature. She watched the fire build on top of itself, until at last it roared with all its might. It seemed odd that such a grand fire could be born of secondhand firewood, but Wendy thought little of it.

The calming waltz of the flames entranced her, quite like the smoke did earlier that evening. But as the fire grew far past the size of being controllable, her consciousness slipped farther away into a hypnosis of sorts. And there she stayed until a spark freed itself and jumped onto the far corner of her housecoat. Quickly, she reached for the thickest blanket to suffocate the flame, but by the time she'd reached it, the tiny flame had extinguished itself. Wendy stood, her heart pounding in her chest. "Mary Queen of Scots, I never get a break!" She exclaimed, moving in to tend to the unruly fire.

After a while of picking and coaxing the flame, things died down for Wendy. Still, she knew now that the night forbade her to rest. And thus, she never allowed herself to pass into a state of comfort again.

"I'm moving out." She whispered, rolling her chest over her knees and pressing her forehead against the floor.

"It's over. All over." A deep pain grew from within her chest, choking her from the inside. She lifted her torso in hopes of blocking the pain, but it only grew with each upward fold of her spine. She was far too weak to hold herself up any more. She supported her head with her hands- and there, she released it. As much as she could release any way. Fat, warm tears dampened her icy cheeks, deep, internalized sobs shut down her proper breathing functions.

"Why? Oh, why!? Why, God? Why must you be so stingy with your second chances? Is it because we were so careless? So ungrateful?" She went to wipe her face, only to hide it from the almost scorching quality of the cold air.

"What do I have to do? I'd do anything in this world and the next and all other worlds and lives accessible to my supposed "everlasting soul" if"- she stopped, mid-cringe. She'd never been a religious girl, no, she thought that religion was meant for the weak. And perhaps that is why, in the moment of her greatest weakness, she'd harkened to it. "If," She continued, "I could see my Percy again."

Silence swallowed the remainder of her sobs, leaving her alone in the soundless room. And there she sat, until at last, Wendy found that she couldn't sit any more. So on to her side, she fell. Her head was still locked in an uncomfortable position above her knees; but at this point, she didn't care if her back cramped. She didn't care at all. All that she wanted in that moment was to give all of her weight to the ground- so that she might not have to worry about carrying herself anymore.

In the distance, the church bells chimed the hour in- two o'clock. And between the two o'clock toll at the three o'clock toll, Wendy slept. She found herself in the deepest, darkest, and undoubtedly the most dreamless slumber she'd ever known. All was empty and silent, there was no trace of emotion or thought in her mind. This single hour of darkness came and went in a silent, shadow-like quality and it ended with a small vision that transpired in the back of Wendy's restful mind. Out of the darkness, appeared the ring. Just the ring. It started in the distance and began to move closer within her field of vision. As it approached, the clear stone filled with fire once more. As this happened, a loud "pop" from the fireplace caused Wendy to rise in a cold sweat. After quickly collecting herself, she looked down at her hand and found that the ring was still alive with the image of fire. She turned to the fireplace, however and saw that it was not. Except for one, lonesome, suffocating ember on the mantle. Her eyes shifted from the ember to the ring and the ring to the ember. After studying them both, Wendy realized that they were burning in the exact same time, with the exact same quality. Entranced, she placed her hand next to it on the mantle and watched the hauntingly impossible synchronization of both forces. Then gradually, very gradually, their energy grew- erupting into quick and ruthless slashing of flame. Wendy could see before her that this had coaxed the fire back to life and within seconds, it was teeming with force- with aggression. Five larger embers surged from the fireplace, pounding down on Wendy and setting her housecoat ablaze. In a panic, she started to pat the fire down, but she found that these flames were not of this world. They were cool and soft as a linens flapping violently in the breeze. She lowered her hand. Upon this action, the flames moved from all around to her hand- to the ring. There, they found their power. They consumed her hand completely, twisting and turning in a terrible, barbaric dance. Until, from there they spread and swallowed Wendy entirely.

For only a short while, the brilliant orange light filled her eyes and then it softened into a peach like glow- dimming, dimming until none was left but darkness. By now, panic had been somewhat exorcised from Wendy's body along with all other mortal attributes. Not a single thought or care remained in her mind- all except for one question, "Is this what dying is like?" Out of the darkness, soft-burning balls of light appeared. They were far away, smaller than a needle's point- much too small to be stars. Over time, the empty space filled with them- tiny dots, rapidly appearing, chaotically sticking themselves all over the blackness until at last, there was no darkness left. Blinding white. But Wendy found that she could not shut her eyes. She had to see what would happen next. And she was lucky that she chose to be patient. This entire time, her feet had remained planted in the ground, but the emptiness around her forced her to feel as though she was flying. And now, a sense of stillness and security found her feet. Below them, as her comfort became centered, she felt a crunching sensation that seemed to suggest that she was standing in a bed of fallen leaves. As the gentle "crunch" ended, greener, more livid tips of leaves penetrated the blank canvas of white. The white slowly subsided, like a dense fog backing away into a thicket. But the enface light refused to diminish, leaving Wendy with a mighty beam of light that was framed by an opaque casement of leaves. Something stirred from within the light and with just as much certainty as the splattering of white, an outline of a man took shape. Even from a distance, Wendy could figure that he was well over twice her size. She moved backwards. Another crunch. His features began to take their form. Yet, another crunch. She saw that he was an elderly man with a long white beard and a staff tucked under her arm. She moved back as far as she could go. A crunch, followed by a thud. She'd backed herself into a tree.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch. It's God." Wendy gasped.

The man's face moved from the ethereal to the human as it twisted into a pleasant smile. "It's been far too long, my old friend. Tell me, what is your name? I seem to have forgotten."

She held her tongue, but only momentarily; contemplating how to reply. "Wendy Wenzel." She lifted her weight off of the tree and stood straight again.

"Wendy Kipling, as it should be." Wendy lowered her eyes at this. It was the first time she'd heard what would be her future name uttered in real time and not only within her mind.

"As it should be, indeed."

"And does the name Bronwen Bittles mean anything to you?" He asked, almost joyously, kneeling to her height.

The name rang no bells for Wendy but, in its peculiarity, it did make her smile. "I'm sorry, I've never heard such a name before."

"Hm. Pity." His face grew solemn, "Well, you shall remember on your own time."

"I beg your pardon. But remember? Remember what? It sounds to me like I've been here before, but I cannot bring to mind any memory of these woods."

"No." He whispered. "No I imagine you wouldn't. I wish that I could have more answers for you, my friend. But I am just as puzzled to find you here and as new to this world as you are. In this form, at least. But I do remember you. I have a sort of keen memory for my hobbit friends."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Are you calling me a hobbit? Like a Tolkien hobbit?" She'd read the books as a girl, but had no extensive memory of them.

"I know of no hobbit named Tolkien. You must be speaking of one in your own world?"

"In my world, hobbits exist only in books and Dungeons and Dragons. We're limited to humans- like me and like Tolkien. He wrote books about hobbits. I write- well, I write for a newspaper. Or at least I'd like to. Oh- but we aren't all writers, you see. I'm sorry. This is very confusing."

"Hmmm... yes. Yes indeed, it is." He snorted.

"Okay, this is what I have so far. This is heaven, you are God, I'm a hobbit- say, do we become hobbits when we die?"

"I'm not, as you call me, God. My name is Olorin. There was a time when you yourself called me Gandalf. You may call me that again, if you so desire. And to answer your question, I do not believe that you are dead."

"You mean to say... I didn't." She paused, remembering something from earlier. Something important. "Hey, how do you know my maiden name? And Percy's last name?"

"Just a feeling."

"Begging your pardon once more- but you can't just come up with two names like Gwendolyn Wenzel and Percy Kipling on a feeling. I don't care if you're God or Orion, Lord of the Onions! Things don't just happen that way."

"Well," He said, gently sweeping a leaf off of Wendy's shoulder, "begging your pardon, little miss, but if you had any more of a button's worth of knowledge as to why you're in this new and undiscovered land, you still wouldn't possess an inkling of the way in which things happen. Or why they happen, just as well. That is beyond both your reach and mine."

Wendy moved her mouth to speak, but no words could be found.

"I do," he continued, "know that if you're in search of a second chance, there is no better place to start than where your feet are planted now."

She leaned in, finding her words at last. But again, he interrupted her thought.

"But do be careful, little Wendy. For shadows can find their way over even the most pleasant dreams. Above this enchanted forest, a mighty storm of anger and lust covers up the light of day. We who dwell here are fighting every hour to win the light back. And now, I fear, you must join the fight."

"I'm sorry. But in order to fight for something, I must first know what it is I'm fighting for." Wendy demanded.

"You already know the answer. That ring around your finger. What happened before you were burdened with it- that was the light."

Gandalf hardly left Wendy to contemplate what was said. And for good reason, too. Upon acknowledgement of the ring, a fierce desire to look upon it filled her. "Is it", Wendy asked herself, "still aglow with that image of fire. Perhaps Gandalf can tell me why." Her eyes dropped, but the ring could not be found. For when her body had decreased in size, her loungewear hadn't shrunk an inch. So naturally, her hands were completely hidden within a mess of black fleece. In a brisk action, she tugged the sleeve back and once again, the amber glow upon the silver band filled her eyes.

"What is it doing?" She whispered. "And how- how did you know that it was there."

Again, a grin. She had yet to grow tired of his grins, for they provided her with a special comfort. He extended his hand and on his finger, Wendy saw a ring that was far more ornate than her own. A surprise. She believed that hers was just about as regal as the Crown Jewels.

"Meet Narya. You might say that it is a distant relative of your ring. Mine is the ring of fire. It is very powerful and has a mind of its own, so to speak. Yours, too is a marvelous possession. Though the reason for you being here is still unclear to me, it is the ring and its connection to mine that brought you here. Do not take your ownership of it lightly, no matter what you do."

"You must be mistaken. It's just a common ring. Percy found it for me in London. I still don't know why he gave it to me-" Whiplash. At last, it had figured itself out on its own within Wendy's mind.

Seeing her revelation, Gandalf's grin transitioned into a chuckle. "So that you might find him again." Yes, of course. So that she might find him again...


	2. Chapter 2

Much of the time that passed in the forest that day, seemed to be that of a dream. Why, there were moments here and there when Wendy could have sworn that if she opened her eyes too wide, she'd find herself back in her living room. The comfort that she found in the forest was minimal; they were nothing like the pleasant little woods back home. Between the mossy beds and crunchy leaves, the forest floor was a jungle of sharp rocks. Light scarcely touched the bottom, except for on those rare occasions when the leaves above made a narrow skylight. Wendy found partial amusement in those spaces because the smoke that cascaded from Gandalf's pipe had a way of finding them just as her incense did. There were so many things that she wanted to tell Gandalf- about Straford and London and Percy- but truth be told, she barely knew how to amuse him. Let alone, how much he knew about her already and what she just might learn about herself from him.

It was easy to become comfortable with Gandalf. Despite the dreadful acknowledgement of wars and things, his mellowness was contagious. Their conversations moved freely- of course, most of the conversations consisted of his talking and her listening. But Wendy didn't mind this at all. After an hour or two of smoking and reclining- Wendy surely wouldn't confess it, but she did have a puff or two; she'd learned a great deal about the origin of her ring. Many years ago, it had been gifted by a dark lord to one of seven dwarves. Of course, to Wendy, it sounded like a ridiculous collision between some biblical parable and an old school Disney movie- but again, she'd accepted it as a dream and enjoyed the absurdity of her new friend's story. The dwarf misplaced the ring on a conquest for treasure, deep in an ancient mountain's cave. Up until this point, it was believed that her ring was destroyed by a dragon- or of course, merely lost. How it ended up in Trafalgar Square, however, was beyond the two of them.

"Narya." Wendy said, pointing to his ring in the silence between Gandalf's topics. He nodded. She smiled at a tiny epiphany and continued,

"It does sound a bit like 'fire', does it not?" She'd always been somewhat obsessed with words. Gandalf appreciated this and they exchanged smiles before silence filled the air once more. Wendy pulled back her sleeve and looked at her hand.

"So, they're related... say," she looked up, cheerful amusement filling her face, "does my ring have a name, too?" "Sehiyat." He spat, as if the name were poison on his tongue. Wendy looked at her ring, trying to make sense of the name.

"Sehiyat. That doesn't really sound like anything. Except for maybe a cat choking up a hairball!" They laughed. It was good to find someone who appreciated her humor. For however short a while, anyway.

Another hour passed and comfort seemed to taper off as the skylights transitioned into evening's golden glow. Gandalf looked above and shifted his weight around on the mighty fallen branch that they'd been sitting on. "We have only a few hours of daylight left, little Wendy. I'm afraid that when night falls, I am going to have to leave you for a while."

Her face turned white. Alone? In the forest? She was still far too uneasy in the space for such an adventure.

"I can assure you," Gandalf coaxed, "you won't be left alone. Any friend of mine is in good company in these woods."

Wendy laughed at this. And uncomfortably, I might add. "What other company is there in this place? The trees?"

His expression shifted from gentle to severe. "Don't joke. Besides, you have quite a history with trees if I remember right."

This was true. But only to an extent. As I mentioned earlier, the fonder the memories of her and Percy, the closer to nature they were. Still, it seemed as though there was more here than the life she had known before. She could feel it. Though she wasn't quite sure where this feeling was coming from. "How do you mean?" She asked, in hopes of keeping this subject from dissipating.

"You really don't remember? Ah! It was such a fine little story, too!"

Wendy leaned in, she had to hear this. The eagerness in her eyes pushed Gandalf to move on. "Little Bron Bittles," he began, a twinkle in his eye and a subtle gesture toward Wendy, "of Bywater was a bit of a wonder to see-" The trees overhead began rustling, tearing Gandalf out of his train of thought.

"Well, go on!" Wendy demanded, barely phased by what seemed to be a sudden shift of the breeze. But within moments, the motion passed from the branches to the trunks and eventually, even to the ground. Between quakes, something that sounded like a voice could be heard overhead. It was unlike any voice Wendy had ever heard before, slow and melodic- yet high and lilting; like the throaty sound of a violin when the stings are plucked.

 _Fo-a fo-fum, fiddle fi-fee_

 _Fi-fee_

 _Fo-a fo-fun fiddle fi-fee!_

Gandalf laughed loudly and lifted himself to his feet, standing upright. "Oh, you're going to love this, Wendy."

 _Freedom's in frivolity_

 _Frivolity's for me_

 _For forestlings foster a fum_

 _A fum fiddle fi-fi-fee_

She ducked down, hiding from the sound that seemed to live within the pattering of leaves. "Gandalf?" A whisper, a terrified whisper. Her mood contrasted Gandalf's loud laughs. "What is that?" He turned, grinning. "Your ride, of course!" From out of the brush, appeared the most unusual creature Wendy had ever seen. It was tall, in the form of a man, almost- but far too tall to be one. Three times greater than Gandalf himself! His entire form was fashioned with leaves and moss and the innermost bulk of his body seemed to represent the trunk of a tree.

 _And fum fidde fi-fi fee_

 _For free- for a forestling like me!_

The strange creature finished his song, spreading his "arms" widely in a theatrical gesture. Surely, his approach had been happenstance. Otherwise, Gandalf wouldn't have engaged Wendy so deeply in the story of "Bron Bittles". So, his presentational behavior seemed a bit more internalized than anything. Besides, he hadn't seen them.

Gandalf clapped joyously and stepped out into plain sight. "Fiddlefern! Just the forestling I was looking for. I see your masterpiece is still in the making."

The "forestling's" eyes dropped down, down to where there tiny forms were. He looked at Gandalf first and then at Wendy. His eyes were wide and bright, like those of an owl. He blinked and cocked his head to the side, staring directly into her fear, her wonder.

"It's taking its precious time." Fiddlefern said, his eyes still locked on poor little Wendy. His twig-like fingers moved upward, breezily unraveling the twisted mustache above his upper lip. "Your friend looks mischievous. And very afraid. I don't know what to make of him." Gandalf turned and reached for Wendy's hand.

"Say hello to Fiddlefern." He whispered. When Wendy would not stand, he grabbed hold of the sleeve of her now oversized housecoat and lifted her to her feet.

A disgusted sound resonated inside of Fiddlefern's mouth, as though a bug had flown in and landed on his tongue. "He looks like a pesky orc. Shall I stomp?" Upon this remark, Wendy moved to duck behind Gandalf, but was caught once again by the sleeve.

"You'll do nothing of the sort. Treebeard has called for your assistance?"

Wendy aligned herself, chuckling at the name "Treebeard".

"And what, might I ask is so funny, master orc?" Fiddlefern shouted, his golden eyes narrowing in on her. By now, darkness was nearly upon them and the lack of light gave his eyes a menacing glow. Although she couldn't see them, Wendy could almost feel the sensation of... hair... on her feet... standing on end.

"Wendy is no orc, my friend. She is a hobbit. And she is not alone. There are two of her kind in Fangorn as we speak. Both of whom are in possession of Treebeard. Might I entrust to you the task of taking her to the Entmoot, so that she may be reunited with her kin?"

Before any single thought could develop in anyone's mind, Fiddlefern bent over and gracefully, as though the wind itself had guided his movement, swept Wendy off of the ground. He moved her up to his face, so that his two eyes were all that she saw, shining brightly like mighty orb-like beacons. The flecks in his eyes alternated fleeting glistens as the caught the light as though they were fireflies alongside a busy street. Terror only began to abandon her as she became entranced by the natural radiance of his eyes but then, he turned her upside down. The endless black fabric that she donned poured down over her face, temporarily blinding her from all that was about to happen. Gently, Fiddlefern rocked her side to side and then up and down until Wendy could no longer bear the unsteady blood flow to her head. She let out a tiny scream. Startled by the noise, Fiddlefern's grip loosened and little Wendy fell- down, down, down to the sharp rocks below and for a while, all was black.

Wendy awoke some hours later to a gentle, rhythmic humming that was coincided by a similar rocking motion. She looked around, half expecting that the scenery might have changed. Or better yet, that in her unconscious state, she'd slipped away into some other land. Truth be told, it hadn't completely registered in Wendy's mind that she was there to stay. She allowed her thoughts to regroup themselves and within moments she could remember why her head was throbbing so. She also recognized the hammockesque grip that she was encased within- Fiddlefern's mighty, vine-like hands.

"You dropped me." She shrieked, twisting herself to look up at his face. But she never found it, for her had her in a strange, sideways lock.

He giggled softly. Not quite the reaction that Wendy was looking for. She scowled as the deep, cello-like sound erupted into a climax of uncontrollable laughter.

"Well, I didn't think that it was very funny at all." She scowled. "And I don't think Gandalf thought that it was very funny either." Wendy added, remembering that her friend was leaving her in the hysterical treeman's possession.

"No." Fiddlefern stated, between laughs. "Gandalf got very mad at me. It was a hoot!"

"Hoot? You know something, you are- you're improper! Yes, you're an improper, indecent craft shop ficus garland with feet! That also happens to be possessed." Her insults always were cavalcades of absurdity. But Percy found them to be rather endearing. Not to mention, sarcastic little snips were something that the two of them shared. Why, one winter at the university, she'd bundled herself up so much before a walk in the snow that Percy made a very memorable remark. Or rather, it was memorable for Wendy. As will be mentioned later on in this chapter, Percy was from the North. And it showed very plainly when he spoke. There were many phrases he'd say that would amuse Wendy. Why, sometimes she'd even ask him to repeat certain words because they were, as Wendy would say, "delectable" to hear. Anyway, the insult- that you might not find very special, but she'd had him say it on the telephone to her parents (chiefly for her own amusement) was, "For fuck's sake, woman! Bundle, bundle, bundle! Heaven forbid Old Man Winter blow his breath too harshly upon your rosy fucking cheeks!" Of course, she keeled over, laughing fitfully. As you may have rendered by now, Wendy swore like a sailor. As did Percy. What made them unique, however, was that they held off on it until the situation beckoned humor. Or rather, they used swearing as a tool to lighten a mood as opposed to make it more severe. It worked beautifully. For the two of them, at least.

It was no secret that Wendy was not impressed with her means of transportation. As the hour grew later and later, she grew more and more annoyed with Fiddlefern.

"You're taking me," she asked at one point, interrupting Fiddlefern's directionless hums, "to be with the other hobbits, then?"

He continued his song momentarily, as if to pester Wendy. It wasn't until, in her frustration, she drew in a large breath of air, that he spoke. "Two. Two other hobbits. What, did you think that you were native to these woods?" A snort, followed by another explosion of giggles.

"No." Wendy replied, hopelessly. "No I guess not. Of course, I don't know the first thing about this world."

She watched the ground. Changeless. There was nothing left to say to her companion. At least, nothing that he'd take seriously. In the back of her mind, Wendy did ponder that she'd been a bit too severe lately. And yet, the fall on the head made her feel justified in her bitterness. She wondered about the hobbits and perhaps, for a moment or two, she hoped that one of them would be her Percy. But this thought was a bit of a stretch and so, she abandoned it. Still, she was curious about their impending meeting. He'd been such a monumental part of her life for so long, it was difficult to imagine having to meet him all over again. Since the accident, thoughts of their first meeting would emerge here and there. They were ancient, it seemed. Petrified in a special place so that she may revisit them- but never fully immerse herself in any detailed memory.

She knew that they were both five when it happened. Her parents reached an agreement that she was becoming too sheltered since the adoption. Truthfully, she had no memory of life before. All that she knew was they'd scooped her up at an orphanage in North England when she was three and a half. The rest was history. Or rather, it had to be. Nobody had any real idea of where she came from. And maybe, just maybe that is why she so readily accepted the crazy idea that she'd come from this world. For Wendy, anything was possible when it came to her open-ended past. But the second that she entered the real world and her parents enrolled her in school, Percy became part of her life- for good. He was, like her, a stranger to the area. And in their natural isolation from the other students, their friendship flourished. Their primary school was a large stone building set alongside the river. It was a pretty little establishment with a garden, sandbox, dock and a couple of tire swings. For one reason or the next, Wendy hardly cared for the sandbox nor the swings. Her attention gravitated toward the dock.

Since the first moment that Wendy laid her eyes on it, she was wildly enamored by the river; and the dock behind the schoolhouse was no exception. As a matter of fact, the charming little underwater world that she'd discovered was far more rampant in this location than on the banks near her home. Part of this had to do with the hungry community of massive English ravens and even greater English swans that existed behind her house. The reason why I've made special note of their sizes is that any traveler knows, especially one from the states, that the birds in England are far more "butch" than one would expect upon first gander. Furthermore, in Wendy's youthful state, a swan (particularly, a Stratford swan) while pleasing to watch from afar; would be a terror to encounter. So, she stuck to the more quiet area for her observations.

And oh, what pleasant little observations they were! The hollowed stones along the riverbank created miniature tide pools, along which colorful spotted mushrooms and related specimens grew. In the springtime, newborn grasses would occasionally pop their little heads out between the empty spaces. But her favorite thing to watch was the sense of citizenship between the giant bullfrogs and the tiny brown fishes. Or better yet, that of the fishes and the tadpoles! She loved to watch them swim through the brownness of the murky depths, bumping into one another and carrying on along their premeditated paths- quite like people on a busy street. It was, for Wendy, a way to escape the world for a while; while not escaping life.

Percy must have liked this as well; but of course, being a boy, his approach was a tiny bit different from Wendy's. The day of their first meeting, Wendy escaped to the dock. It was her second day at the new school and already, she was being teased by her classmates. For a silly reason, too. Her stockings had to be royal blue, so that they might match her school uniform. Her parents were informed of this after purchasing her a pair of white ones, which she would have to make do with until her father's next paycheck. Being the fragile little soul that she was, not to mention, eager to impress; the criticism of her peers tore her apart. She looked down in the water, heavy tears creating ripples in her reflection and when the image restored itself, she noticed that she was not alone. A fair little boy with golden hair and a tiny red nose was glancing down over her shoulder.

"You're making all the fishes sad. When they get sad enough, they'll all swim away." The little boy said, bending over and staring Wendy in the face. His golden eyelashes flicked over his light green eyes and although his face was full of concern for the wellbeing of the fishes, she could see a smile in them.

"They never pay any attention to me." Wendy replied, still feeling sorry for herself.

"Nobody will pay any attention to you if you spend your life hiding out on the dock." The thickness of his Scottish accent became prevalent on the last few words of his sentence. Wendy laughed at this. "There, see. That thought will cheer anybody up." Her laughter continued, much to the little boys surprise. "Hey, now! I was being serious."

Wendy pulled herself together and faced the boy, covering her face slightly. "You called the dock a "dook". It made me laugh."

His green eyes grew smaller, showing all of the frustration that they could harbor; which was not very much. "So, I talk funny, alright. But for what it's worth, everyone around here sounds even sillier to me." Wendy softened her glance, secretly wishing that she could conjure up his cheerfulness once more.

"You're a new student, too?" She asked, smiling. Hoping that he would exchange smiles with her.

He did, almost beaming to know that he wasn't completely alone. "I didn't know that you were new. No wonder you look so sad."

Wendy thought about telling him about the socks. But boys hardly care about clothes and things. She nodded, "Yes, I am sad. I'm sorry that you're sad, too."

"I'm not sad." He demanded, trying his hardest to sound like a tough little boy. "But I am lonely. Are you lonely?" She nodded, smiling slightly at his logic. "Maybe we could be friends. My name is Percival Roscoe Kipling. Friends call me Percy"

He held out his hand formally and Wendy shook it, slightly overwhelmed by said formality. "Parcey." She repeated, just as he said it. His face scrunched up a bit at this.

"I only kid. My name is Gwendolyn Phyllida Wenzel. Friends call me Wendy."

He repeated the name to the best of his ability, catching a glimpse of Wendy's face upon his pronunciation. "Windy Winzul." The two of them exchanged smiles as they reached a mutual agreement to make light of the situation.

"Perfect." Wendy said. And from that moment out, he was always there. Beautiful little Percy. They spent the remainder of their recess with their feet dipped in the water. He'd told her a story about how a giant fish, much larger than the little ones that frequented the area- but a big one, twice the size of his foot, came along the other day and bit onto his toe. This traumatized Percy slightly, but not quite long enough. He'd spent a good deal of time since then with his feet submerged, hoping that it would happen again. And now, he had a friend who was just as interested in the grotesque, yet humorous event.

After a couple of weeks, an icy breeze nipped the air and the weather was no longer suitable for toe tackling and eventually, the short walk to the river itself became elongated by a boundless sheet of slippery ice. Thus, their playdates moved indoors. Neither Percy nor Wendy ever became fully situated with the other students. But their friendship grew to be so stable and so easy to rely on, that any other kind of companionship seemed subpar to what they had. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until university that they began to socialize with any outsiders. By then, all of their inside jokes- second nature, though they were, had grown smaller in their humor and profundity. The real crime was that they'd grown too close and too accustomed to one another's company.

Even when Percy was gone, it seemed as though Wendy could still carry on conversations with him in her head. And when he'd come back, it was almost as if he'd never been gone at all; almost as if he'd known and acknowledged exactly what she'd said to him in their time apart.

Wendy could feel her eyelids growing heavier and heavier and yet, she didn't close her eyes. They remained on the ground. Rocks and overgrowth reawakened the memory of those little tide pools along the River Avon. Occasionally, while revisiting that first day with Percy, she imagined that they were filled with the brown water and the sad little fishes.

She wondered what she would say to her new Percy. She wondered how they would meet and how different it would be from their original first encounter. Would the nuance of this impending meeting outshine the memory of the old? She couldn't tell you. It was painful to think about. In her heart, Wendy longed to revisit each and every memory before they escaped her mind completely. And now, she was beginning to understand that this would never happen.

She pressed her nose against the fabric of her housecoat, but the only smell that she could find was that of her own lavender incense and old fashioned cherry almond lotion. She moved her face around, searching hopelessly for the musky smell of his sandalwood aftershave or that of the sweet baked apples that he would make them for breakfast. But nothing was there. The housecoat was hers, not a single trace of him could be found on it anymore. The picture beckoned from inside of her pocket. She wanted more than anything to look, but she decided to leave it there. It was her only reference point, to save for the time when his face would fade away completely. She had to keep it safe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The brief lyric that appears in this chapter is taken from the song, "Voyage of the Moon" by Donovan. I do not own it.

When night fell, the darkness drained not only the subtle glow of starlight from the fanglike canopies overhead, it also seemed to steal away all of Fiddlefern's enthusiasm bit by bit. Wendy hadn't before realized how calming it was to hear her companion drone though the monotonous melody of his endless song until darkness pressed down on it like a weight. It was darker than the deepest cavern in which you could hold your hand in front of your face and see not even the trace outline of your fingers. Still, they wandered on; aimlessly, it seemed. All the while, Wendy kept her eyes wide open, waiting for something to transpire. She watched the space wherein Fiddlefern's mighty owl eyes lived and she waited- waited for a fleck of light to bounce off of them. Nothing. Minute after uncomfortable minute passed. Nothing still. And then, something happened. But it was nothing that Wendy nor Fiddlefern could behold with their eyes, no. It was a sound. The hollow clip-clopping of hooves over damp and mossy stones.

"Can you hear that?" Wendy whispered, trying with all of her might to be quieter than the sound so that they could track it.

"I hear nothing." Fiddlefern replied in his regular, full tonality. "Nothing."

"It sounds like a horse, Fiddlefern." She paused, perhaps they were getting closer. "Do the hobbits have horses?"

"I know nothing of the hobbits."

Wendy abandoned the thought- for at this point, it seemed to be the only thing that she could do; and continued to hone in on the sound. "Well, I hear something. And I think it might be important." She stopped, "It might be Percy."

The sound of the hooves began to dissipate somewhere off to their right. Wendy jumped on the opportunity. "Turn to the right, Fiddlefern. I have a hunch."

"You have a sentiment. The darkness is playing tricks on your mind."

Fiddlefern continued lurching forward, growing more and more uneasy as he moved through the blackness. He must have achieved two or three strides into his chosen pathway when something disrupted his movement. Far away, over to the right, a sliver of moonlight peeped through the trees. It's light splashed down over a pile of stones in a clearing. Fiddlefern grunted and moved past.

"You don't think that we should stop there?" Wendy asked, turning to meet his eyes which were now aglow with their familiar amber light.

"I know these woods better than you, my little friend. Not every haunting is significant. They are merely part of Fangorn's framework. Be at peace. And trust Fiddlefern."

She watched the pale stones fade away into nothingness and the slender spotlight of a moon as the stingy darkness gobbled it up. "Is it," Fiddlfern asked, "the darkness that it bothering you?"

"Not so much the darkness as it is the silence." Wendy replied. "Perhaps if we continue to talk, I will feel more at home."

Fiddlefern made a distasteful sound at this. Something about the night had changed him from the talkative creature than he was before.

"Or you could sing a bit," she continued, "you always sing so nicely."

Once again, a repugnant snort. At this, Wendy let out a tiny sigh of surrender and shut her eyes, longing for the morning to come and for things to settle back into that obscure normality she'd just grown used to.

"Do you know any songs, little Wendy?" He coaxed.

This stopped Wendy. She'd dabbled in music here and there in the past. Why, she even had a cheap little six string at their home in London.

"I know a few from memory. Silly little songs that Percy and I used to sing together." She smiled as her thoughts began to gather. "There was one song that we used to sing on a cloudy night to make the moon come out from its hiding place. Although it scarcely worked. It was a lullaby of sorts." The simple, sweet little melody that she hadn't paid a visit to in years transpired in the back of her mind. It filled her up with comfort- and with sadness.

 _The moon is like a boat, my love,_

 _Of lemon peel afloat, my love,_

 _And with a sail of gauze, my love,_

 _She seems to slightly pause_

 _Upon her silent way._

 _All on her silent way_

Her voice trembled as she finished the phrase and in the back of her throat, a painful knot began to grow. "I'm afraid," she said, newborn tears burning her eyes, "that I've forgotten most of it."

"That's too bad," said Fiddlefern, oblivious to the pain that Wendy was feeling, " Ah, well, it was a most unpleasant tune, anyway."

While she could have felt a tinge- or greater, of frustration at Fiddlefern's contradictions, Wendy let out a tiny laugh. "You're right. It is. Music doesn't sound as sweet to me as it once did." Her laughter proved to be short-lived as she began rambling, feeling sorry for herself, "I don't know if I could take delight in even the happiest melody right now."

"All is not lost. It takes talent for one to laugh at their own misery. Perhaps not wisdom, but talent." A low, melodic chuckle. "What is laughter but a song that hasn't yet been born?"

Wendy felt, for a moment, that she'd caught a glimpse of what he spoke of and could understand how it aligned with her life. But she let it drop. "That's very nice, Fiddlefern." She yawned. Once more in the darkness, Wendy could hear what sounded like the approaching of a horse. "I can hear it again." She whispered. "Something is out there. Following us."

"How exactly did he die?" Numbness washed over Wendy as Fiddlefern asked this question. She knew that it was merely done to distract her from what he'd described before as one of Fangorn's "hauntings".

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The fellow you mentioned earlier." His response was so casual that it could barely relieve her the pain of his burdensome not to mention, curious question.

"I never said that he was dead. How could you even think that if I just now suggested that he was following us?"

"You really have no idea what's out there in those woods." Fiddlefern said, sounding rather satisfied with himself.

"Could you tell me, please." She could feel her voice growing smaller in her throat. "It's making me very frightened."

"How can you be frightened? The forest has figured out what it is you want to hear and is delivering it to you. You should be thrilled!"With that, Fiddlefern began his ritualistic laughing once more. As he did; vaguely, very vaguely light returned to the forest. Glancing to the side of the road, Wendy could see what it was she'd pictured. The form of a black horse fading into the mist.

"It was the night before our wedding. He'd gone out drinking with his mates and I stayed in. At about 12:30, he phoned in search of a designated driver. Me. I'd done it before and I didn't want to do it that night. So, he ordered a coffee and about five minutes later, there was a disturbance from outside. Daniel, a coworker of his had climbed the roof in his own drunken stupor and was sitting atop the black metal horse above the door, shouting at the people on the street. Somehow, Daniel slipped and Percy, of course, had to go to his rescue. During that time, Percy's scarf managed to get entangled around the leg of the horse and when he lost his footing on the ice, the scarf tightened like a noose. The doctor said that his neck snapped under his own weight.. He was killed instantly." She listened to her voice, how drained of emotion is was. Normally, Wendy didn't talk like that. Her voice was typically more musical in nature, even when she was anything but cheerful. But when, at last, she brought herself to talk about the accident- robotic. Robotic and unfeeling. "It happened three days ago. And I only just recently had my first good cry about it. What is wrong with me? It's as though I bulldozed over every stage of grief and accepted everything on the spot."

Fiddlefern groaned. A deep, chilling sound like the creaking of a wooden ship set sail on a windy night. "You said it was a metal horse?"

"Yes, the one on the top of the Better's Head Pub." Wendy sighed," He didn't even loosen a single bolt."

"Well, Miss Wendy. You'd have to be just as blinded by grief as you want to be to not see-"

"Yes, yes. That we're being pursued by the spirit of some horse. Very cute. Some rider probably lost his mount in the woods."

He growled, "No. It wouldn't have made it in this far."

"Right, because we're in an enchanted forest where trees come alive. Horses are tough."

"You know, acceptance isn't a terrible quality to have. And up to this point, you've really showed your stripes."

Not wanting to extend the argument, Wendy chuckled, "Okay. I accept that an undead horse that is somehow connected to the death of my presumably undead fiancé is following us through the woods."

"And by accepting that, you also accept that the reason why the undead horse is en route is that you are completely overcome with grief. And also that something much greater than you is telling you that."

It had yet to become apparent to both Fiddlefern and Wendy just how much time had passed until they came upon a clearing. As the dewy morning light traveled across the bent and mossy terrain to reach their eyes they found that they were not alone. As a matter of fact, had Wendy's eye been a hair more clever, she would have seen that the area was swarming with creatures of Fiddlefern's kind- but all of her attention gave way to two small, turned backs and curly brown heads. One in particular.

"Percy? Percival Kipling?" Immediately, her call was answered by a dozen creaking groans. She'd disturbed the area around her, but Wendy didn't care. Her eyes were locked on him, steadfast until they both turned. And there he was, as if he'd never left her at all. Two hundred feet in front of her, but Wendy hadn't seen another human's face so clearly in her life. Though his lips were pressed together in silence, his green eyes danced with wonder as if he, too had seen a ghost. His neighboring hobbit who was nothing but a blur in Wendy's vision, was the first to speak.

"Is that- little Bronny Bittles?"

In response, a smile lightened this Percy's face. "You know something, Merry? I believe it is!"

Wendy could hardly think. She pounded her first against Fiddlefern's knuckles. "Fiddlefern. Down. Please."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Fiddlefern whispered in Wendy's ear.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She said through her teeth. "Just a minute!" She called down below, "Having a forestling malfunction here!"

The two hobbits lined up at Fiddlefern's mighty feet, looking up in wonder as Wendy kicked about. "What's a forestling, Merry?"

"Not sure, Pip." The one named Merry replied before shouting up to Wendy, "You know, the hobbit and ent scenario is only clever once, Bron. Way to steal our thunder!"

Wendy glanced down and let out a breathy chuckle drenched in embarassment before returning her attention to Fiddlefern. "What am I forgetting, please?" She hissed.

"That you're Bronny Bittles, of course." He said with a wink.

"I don't even know what that means. But it sounds like nobody around here is going to let me forget it. Now, can you please put me down? I'm getting tired of asking nicely." With slight sarcasm, Fiddlefern narrowed his eye at Wendy and lowered her to the ground so that she was, at last, face to face with who she'd sought. As quickly as possible, she weighed her options. And yet, the fact that he was right there in front of her made it impossible for her to rationalize.

"It's just a dream, anyway. And I never did this enough in real life." She threw both of her hands on either one of his shoulders and pulled him in, smashing her lips against his in what was perhaps the most awkward kiss imaginable. In the humiliating smudge of time that it took to transpire- roughly five seconds, she could hear both Merry and Fiddlefern combust into a simultaneous fit of laughter.

"Well, it's nice to know that I was missed." He said as she pulled away.

"You've gotten a bit rusty since last we met." Wendy replied, trying to remain just as cool as a cucumber.

"When last we met?" He laughed. "When last we met, we were eight!"

"Oh, please don't tell me you're a Bittles, too. Like my brother or cousin or something."

"What? No, I'm not. Are you- wait. You're confusing me for someone else? Don't you remember me? I'm Pippin. We used to make boats out of twigs and race them in the river. Then you vanished and I never saw you again."

"Nobody ever saw you again." Merry clarified. "And now... here you are."

Wendy inched backwards atop the uneven terrain. "Yep." She said rather uncomfortably, "Here I am..."


End file.
